


Coming Round Again

by nyagosstar



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 13:45:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8982331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyagosstar/pseuds/nyagosstar
Summary: Cullen thought Carver fell during the battle with Meredith. He could not have been more surprised to see Carver at Skyhold's gates, leading a wayward collection of Templars to join the cause.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I not so secretly love Carver and Cullen together, where the fit with each other and the arc of their story in Kirkwall happening outside the bounds of Hawke's adventures.

The weak sunlight was overbright to Cullen’s sensitive eyes. The pain in his head and spine was strong enough that even Dorian’s charming presence wasn’t enough to distract him. It was his move, it’d been his move for nearly a quarter hour, but it was all Cullen could do to keep himself upright. Planning and executing a strategy was beyond him. 

“Honestly, Commander, if you weren’t feeling well enough to play, you should have just said so. I can stare at an unmoving board without your presence.”

He glanced at Dorian. He thought he’d hid his pain better. “I’m fine.”

Dorian snorted, an inelegant sound. “Please. You would look better if you’d died and I raised you to sit at this table with me.”

He swallowed hard against the image of his reanimated corpse at Dorian’s command and tried not to snap. “Perhaps it’s best I take my leave, then.”

“Ah, a poor choice of words.” Dorian’s mouth turned down in something like an apology. “Shall I send a healer to your office?”

Cullen shook his head and prepared to stand. The thought of the long journey back to his office was almost enough to make him weep. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet, feeling just a little grateful that he didn’t waver. “I’m fine.”

Dorian hummed, an ironic and worried sound somehow twined together. “I have business in the tavern. Will you permit me to walk with you?”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

Dorian muttered something under his breath, something that didn’t sound particularly complimentary, but he stuck close to Cullen’s side as they exited the garden and started the walk toward the stairs. Harding saluted as they walked by, and Cullen barely had the strength to return the gesture. Maker, he should have stayed in bed. 

The first three steps left him winded and his vision white around the edges. He paused, now entirely grateful to have Dorian at his side, with his strong grip to the elbow. Dorian made a show of pointing to the courtyard. From a distance, it might seem that they stopped to talk, instead of pausing for Cullen’s weakness. “Can you make the remaining stairs?” Dorian asked in a low tone, his hold tightening as Cullen wavered. 

He wanted to say no. He wanted to sit on the steps and shake until someone brought him his lyrium. He wanted to refuse to move until he felt it flowing through him, lighting him up from the inside, filling him with power and purpose. “A moment,” he said instead of begging, as he breathed through the pain and the hunger.

When he could see, when he felt that his legs would not betray him, he gave Dorian a nod and they started back up the steps. Only to be met halfway by one of his runners. 

“Message for you, Ser. There’s a group of Templars headed toward the gates. Scouts say they look rough, but that don’t make them not dangerous.”

At least the down steps were easier than the ones leading up. Dorian stuck to his side, something about reinforcements should they be rogue Templars. There was a small detachment of soldiers looking stiff and serious, ready for a fight, as well as Bull and Cassandra. The Inquisitor stood off to the side, her arms crossed over her chest, ready to take over, but the jerk of her chin meant she was willing to let Cullen take the lead.

Half an hour of waiting and the gates open to a battalion of Templars, their armor and clothes ragged and rusted. Their attempts to march sadly lacking. They looked hungry and hunted and at their lead was a face he’d never thought to see again.

“Carver.”

Carver Hawke looked like a whole other man than the last time they’d stood before each other. Dark like his sister, his once long locs were gone, hair trimmed close to his skull. Standing before him Carver looked like he hadn’t eaten, slept in days. Like he’d used everything he had just to get to Skyhold. 

“Ser.” His voice was soft, nothing of the rich timber Cullen remembered. “We’ve come a long way to get to you.” He was dirty and worn, but he stood straight under Cullen’s regard and did not waver. 

“Report.”

The laugh that escaped him was non-regulation. “We got out of some serious fucking shit at Therind Redoubt, ser. Don’t know what the hell was riding the Lord Seeker, but it wasn’t human and the creepy shit they tried to feed the troops was red lyrium or I’m a fucking ballet dancer. Me and Barris managed to gather a good company and bust our way out. He’s recovering from a bear fight. You know they had fucking bears the size of houses in the Hinterlands, Ser? Because I did not fucking know until they tried to eat us.” He shook his head, focusing back on his report. “Heard the Inquisition was trying to unfuck things, heard you were here and, well, here we are. Figured an army always needs extra hands.” He seemed to run out of steam, hands fisted to hide their tremor, a dreadful and heartbreaking hope in his face.

Cullen could not be the one to turn him away. “Inquisitor?”

She’d been watching the whole time, silent and unnoticed. “Give them quarters, get them fed. I want a more detailed report in the morning.” She glanced at Dorian. “You and Vivienne check them over, thoroughly.”

Cullen waved over one of his men. “Take a headcount and list of names. See the wounded to the healers, gather and inventory their weapons, and see them to the dining hall. Have quarters settled by the time they’re done.” He turned to the Templars. “We’ll be taking your weapons as a precaution, but know that as long as you are within our walls and mean us no harm, no harm shall come to you.” He looked to Dorian. “What do you need?”

“Madame de Fer and I can examine them as your men make their lists. Best get it out of the way before we let them loose in Skyhold.”

He sent another runner to fetch Vivienne and tried not to track Carver’s moments over the rest of the crowd. 

“Is there something of a history between you and the young gentleman?”

Cullen cleared his throat. How he wished it had been one of his good days, instead of the kind that felt like a stone on his neck and the craving that spread like fire through his body. “He was under my command in Kirkwall. We stood together against Meredith, but I lost track of him after the fighting ended. I feared the worst.”

Dorian hummed. “Should I read through Varric’s novels again to find tales of the lonely Knight Commander and his eager young lieutenant?”

“Don’t be vulgar. He was a fine officer during difficult times. Nothing more.”

“Yes, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the sun certainly seems to validate your estimation. I’ll clear him first, shall I? They you can take him to your office for a chat.” He waved Carver over before Cullen could answer. “I’m going to check you for magical influence. You’re not going to Smite me for using magic outside a Circle, are you? It’s a terrible way to foster new relationships.”

“Nah, I’ve never been that jumpy.” Comfortable with mages right from the start, Carver had been invaluable watching the younger initiates with a cool head, never overreacting to a bit of wild magic. Not like some of the other Templars. Not like Cullen himself. “Might want to watch out for some of the others.” He stood still, with the gentle sway of the exhausted, as Dorian worked his magic. 

After a few moments, Dorian stepped back. The frown on his face did nothing to assuage Cullen’s worst fears. “He’s clear of any thrall, although,” he addressed Carver directly. “How long did they have you?”

“Don’t really know. Hard to keep track of time. Think they forgot about me.” He shook his head. “Better that way, I think, with the shit Lucius is pulling. Could’ve ended up some kind of experiment.”

There was a world of hurt buried just below the surface of Carver’s words and Cullen found he was reluctant to know the source. “Carver?”

When Carver didn’t answer, Dorian took over. “He’s well enough. I’ll send some food to your office.” Dorian beckoned Cassandra with a wave of his hand. “Can you help the Commander with his guest? It’s a long walk to his office.”

For one brief, almost painfully sharp moment, Cullen was grateful for Dorian’s friendship. Though Dorian did not know the reason behind Cullen’s weakness, he knew Cassandra was in Cullen’s confidence about the matter. He’d never pressed for information and only made sure that Cullen had access to a healer if he requested.

The stairs seemed less steep with Carver at his side and Cassandra’s steady presence at his back. He could feel her on the edge of asking about Carver, about his absence from Kirkwall, about the location of Hawke, but she kept herself silent. Perhaps it was the way it seemed to take all of Carver’s focus to make each step, but she kept her peace. It seemed Cullen had many things to thank the Maker for, that day.

They must have been terribly slow in their ascent to the office, as there was food waiting, the fire had been built and there were two chairs pushed up next to the hearth. He felt better, more secure within the walls of his office. More able to handle what was coming next. 

“I’ll spread the word that you’re not to be disturbed.”

“Thank you.”

The door closed behind Cassandra and Cullen was at a complete loss. He had so many questions, and yet could give voice to none of them.

“Nice office.” His tone and face said otherwise. “You’d think the leader of the Inquisition’s Army would rate a roof without holes. You did notice the hole in your roof, yeah?”

Cullen tried to respond twice before his voice worked for him. “The night air helps me sleep.” Sometimes. Sometimes nothing helped. But it didn’t hurt. 

“Maker’s ass. You sleep in here, too? Got nobody looking out for you, here, huh?” He shook his head and looked longingly at the chairs. “Can you help me out of this?” He pinged a finger against his breastplate. “I think if i sit in it, I’ll never get back up.” 

It was something Cullen had done countless times over the course of his career in the Templars, helping another out of their armor, easing straps and buckles that could be hard to reach on one’s own. But with Carver, standing so close, the heat of the fire, the weight of the events of the world settled around them, it felt oddly intimate. His hands shook, just a bit, as he pulled off the last piece. In the armor, Carver looked underfed. Out of it, he looked gaunt. The muscle that helped him wield the massive two-handed blade was diminished. Carver was a shadow of Cullen’s memory of him. 

Carver, careless of his appearance or Cullen’s reaction to it, dropped into one of the chairs and fell on the food like, well, like a man starved. “Pardon me, a moment.” Cullen headed to the east door and waved over one of his guards. “Have one of the wooden tubs brought up, please, and hot water to fill it.”

He got a sharp salute in response and turned back to Carver who’d cleared half of his plate and appeared to be making himself slow down. He sat across from him, taking in the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the prominent knob at his wrist, the deep wells at his collarbone. “Maker, Carver, what happened? I thought you died. I searched for your body, but there were so many dead.” He’d prayed. Kept Carver in his prayers nightly, asking the Maker and Andraste to keep his soul safe and loved. So few of his men had stood with him against Meredith, so few willing to see her madness for what it was. Carver’s unwavering strength helped Cullen find his own.

He snorted. “What else? Fucking Marian.” He cleared the last of his plate and eyed the second, but held back. “I went to help with the fight at the gates and some asshole clipped my head, went down hard and Marian thought she was doing me a favor by carting me halfway across the Free Marches before I woke up.” He ran a hand over his face. “It was impossible to get back into Kirkwall by the time I was healed up. I tried, ser. I tried to get back to you, but it was like swimming upstream during a flood. Then, well,” he huffed and leaned back into the chair his eyes closed.

“Carver?” He reached across the distance between them and took Carver’s hand. He could feel each bone of his finger, the slick of grease from the chicken, the callouses from years of sword work. 

“Met up with a group of Templars out of Kirkwall. I was stupid. Thought we were on the same side. Ended up in the dungeons of Therinfal Redoubt while they tried to figure out what to do with me.” He pressed his lips into a thin line, and looked down at their linked fingers. “I’m so fucking relieved to see you, ser.”

“And I thought to never see you again.” The unexpected and sudden chance, it made him bold. He tightened his grip. At the time, he had convinced himself that he was misreading the situation. Carver Hawke was brash and bright and had all the subtlety of a head wound. An exchange of glances that was just to the side of too long, a lingering hand on the practice yard. They were not signs of Carver’s interest, but the practices of a tactile man. 

Faced with him again, there was little mistaking the touch of Carver’s hand or the way his eyes lingered on Cullen’s lips. “I had wished for better for you, my knight.” 

Carver closed his eyes and breathed out a little sigh at Cullen’s endearment. “Cullen,” and oh, his name from Carver’s lips. 

Cullen leaned across the desk, closing the space between them, only to be drawn up short by the sharp knock of one of his soldiers bearing the tub he requested. They settled it in the corner of the office near the fire and a line of soldiers with buckets of steaming water filled in until the tub was three quarters full. 

“You trying to tell me I smell, ser?” A ghost of a grin crossed Carver’s face.

The truth was that after Kinloch, Cullen didn’t start to feel like a person again until he was able to bathe. Unfortunately for him, it was days after he’d been rescued, as there’d been too much clean up and damage control to do for Gregorius to think of something so luxurious as a bath. Not when there was so much else to be done. “I thought you could do with a bit of comfort.” He wanted to make a joke, make light of it, but he couldn’t make those words come out. 

Carver’s grin eased to something softer, more open. “Going to take care of me, ser?”

“If you would allow it.”

With a sharp nod, Carver took back his hand and pushed himself to his feet. He wavered, and had to grasp the chair to keep upright. “Don’t think I’d be much good without it.”

Cullen helped him with his clothes, piling the tattered, threadbare things to one side. He did his best to keep his touch clinical, not lingering over the scars and fresh wounds as he wanted, but assisting only as needed. He helped Carver keep his balanced as he stepped into the wide, shallow bucked and assisted him in pouring the first round of water over him. Between them, they managed to slough off the worst of the dirt and grime and then Cullen was able to help Carver into the tub.

It was long enough that he could mostly stretch out, just the tips of his knees poking out of the water. Cullen draped a washcloth over the edge of the tub and then climbed the ladder to his private space to gather clothes in better repair. Though taller, Carver was far thinner than Cullen. “Do you need lyrium?” He didn’t want the stuff in his office, but for Carver, he could bear the scent. The thought that he might have suffered through the worst of the withdrawal, alone and in a cell, twisted inside Cullen.

“Lyrium?” Carver sounded sleepy. “No. Haven’t take the stuff in years. Weaned myself off while I was in Kirkwall.” He snorted. “Was never that good a Templar, I guess.”

The relief he felt, knowing that Carver had not suffered so, was a physical thing. “You were always among the best of us.”

Carver twisted around to look at him. “Are you still taking it?”

He shook his head. “It’s been difficult.”

“Yeah, I didn’t want to end up like those poor bastards who couldn’t feed themselves. And once I knew how to use the powers, didn’t seem to matter much if I took the lyrium or not.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Brave of you to stop.”

“I don’t know about that.” He took his chair and settled it behind Carver’s head. “Let me wash your hair.”

Carver hummed. “That’d be nice, ser.”

Cullen gathered the soap and ran his hands over the stark contours of Carver’s skull. He was warm beneath Cullen’s hands, sturdy. “I miss your hair,” he said before he could stop himself.

“Yeah. It was too hard to keep up on the run.” He reached up and touched an ear. “I think my ears stick out too far with it so short.”

Cullen willed his hands to stillness, did not tangle their fingers together. “Your ears are perfect.” He worked a lather into Carver’s hair, sliding his fingers through the short, tight curls longer than is perhaps necessary. 

“Here, tip your head back.” He poured some water over Carver’s hair and then lathered up the mild smelling soap for a second round..

Carver leaned into his touch. “You’re good at that.”

Cullen didn’t pause in his thorough massage, masked as washing. “A second career for me, then, when this is all over.”

Carver laughed. “Always pictured you on a farm, ser. Retired with dogs and chickens maybe.”

He poured clean water over the suds, careful to keep it from running into Carver’s eyes or ears. “You imagined me in my retirement? Were you so keen on my job?”

“Nah.” He let out a pleased sigh when Cullen returned without soap, to continue the massage. “Imagined what it would be like to share it with you. Ser.”

His hands stilled. “Carver.”

“I needed something to keep me company in the cell, didn’t I?” He turned, just a bit, just to meet Cullen’s eyes over his shoulder. “We couldn’t before, with the rules and Kirkwall being such complete shit. But here. Seems like saving the world might give us a little leeway. Don’t you think?”

Careless of the soap or the sloshing water, Cullen leaned in and kissed him. How could he not? The bone of his jaw felt so sharp under the pads of Cullen’s fingers. Carver gasped against his lips and then crushed their mouths together, too much pressure, too hard and perfect, perfect, perfect.

Carver nipped at his lips, his jaw, the well of his collarbones. “Waited for you forever,” he whispered against Cullen’s throat, just above the point of his pulse. 

“Come with me.” Cullen stood and pulled Carver from the tub, letting his gaze linger on the long lines of Carver’s body.

“Like what you see?” There was not a hint of modesty in Carver’s stance, as he stood sturdy and proud under Cullen’s gaze. 

He was not immune to the cold, however, and Cullen could not miss the tremors running through his limbs. “You’re perfect.” He wrapped Carver in a bathsheet to soak up the water from the tub and let him toward the ladder to his loft.

It was a bit of a production, getting Carver up the ladder, but worth it when he saw him stretched out on the bed. “It’s presumptuous, but may I join you?”

Carver laughed, his face lit up with joy. “Did you think I was coming up here to sleep?” He leaned forward, grabbed Cullen by his belt and tugged him onto the bed. “Walked halfway across Thedas for you.” He brought Cullen’s hand to his lips, kissed each knuckle, swiped his tongue over the pads of his fingers. “There were bears.”

“So you said.” Cullen swallowed hard, unwilling to move or blink, lest the vision before him disappear. 

Either Carver understood his hesitation, or was bold enough for both of them. He dragged Cullen in, divesting him of his clothes, pressing him into the mattress. Then it was strong hands, soft lips. Carver’s fingers breached him. Then his cock. Carver’s breath was heady and heavy in Cullen’s ear. Cullen gripped his arms, his back, anywhere he could grab hold, trying to keep Carver from disappearing, to keep them entwined forever. 

After, Cullen held Carver against his chest, and ran his hands over every bit of skin he could reach.

“First thing, you’re getting some Maker damned stairs.” Carver’s voice was slow, sleepy, but carried an edge of determination. “What if you’re sick or tired or wounded? Got to climb the ricketiest ladder in Thedas just to get to bed.”

Cullen smiled and kissed Carver’s temple. “Oh, you’ll get me stairs, will you?”

“I’ll make them.” Carver sat up at Cullen’s laugh. “What? You think I can’t make stairs? I’m handy.”

“I think you need some rest and regular meals before we put you on repair detail.” Carver was all sharp angles against him, prominent bones and too little flesh. Cullen held him close and ached to take away his suffering.

Carver slipped his grip and leaned up on an elbow to loom over him. “You got a repair detail and they never fixed this room? How long you been here?”

“There were other matters to attend to.”

Carver heaved a sigh. “Cullen.” He flopped back down beside him and lifted Cullen’s hand in his own, tracing the folds and curves of Cullen’s palm. “It’s not vanity to have a fucking roof, you know.”

“I don’t think it’s vanity,” he shifted, drawing a hand along Carver’s rib in an attempt to both soothe and distract him. Carver had always been too good at drawing connections and it wasn’t a topic he wanted to broach.

But Carver was not so easily dissuaded. “So, what? You think it’s okay for most everybody else to have roofs, but not you? Because you don’t deserve a roof. Because of that shit with Meredith.”

Cullen closed his eyes and tilted his head back toward the ceiling, swallowing hard enough that he was certain Carver could see it. “Because of Kirkwall. I was there. I let it happen. Perhaps, perhaps I didn’t actively participate in the cruelty, but I didn’t stop it. I didn’t question it most days. Not until the end.”

“And you think not having a roof in the middle of winter on a bloody mountain is going to make up for that? Maker, Cullen. You make up for it by being better. By making sure it doesn’t happen again. You got Templars here?”

He couldn’t look at him. “You know we do.”

“You got mages?”

“Yes.” His voice was barely a whisper, the heat of Carver’s body and regard burning him.

“Are you keeping things fair? Keeping Templars out of mage spaces, keeping them from being made Tranquil?”

“The Inquisitor--”

“I didn’t ask about the Inquisitor, Cullen. I asked about you. What are you doing?”

Not enough. He didn’t know how to be the Commander of an army, keep his soldiers trained and fed and equipped and dismantle generations of wrong thinking at the same time. The bite of lyrium gnawed at his bones, frayed his temper, and made him weak. He was weak, and but it hadn’t taken Kinloch, Kirkwall, and lyrium to make him so. “Not enough. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t even be here, only Cassandra won’t let me resign and there’s too much.” Sometimes the hole in his ceiling was the only way he got any breath at all when the whole world seemed to be crushing in around him.

His eyes were still closed, but he felt Carver’s intensity lessen. He ran his hand over Cullen’s chest, coming to a stop over Cullen’s heart. Cullen breathed, steady and deliberate.

“Well. You’ve got me now, if you want. Seems like saving the world is too big a job just for one person, and everyone needs a second. I can do that for you. I can be your second and take some of the burden off you. Cause, I have to tell you, you look terrible.” He smiled to soften the blow and stroked Cullen’s cheek, his calloused fingers catching on Cullen’s stubble. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re still hot as fuck, but you look like you need about eight weeks of sleep.”

It had been short-sighted of him, maybe, to think he could do the job without help. But he had Leliana and Josephine and Cassandra as his counterparts, all who worked without a second to help them. But then, none of them were running an army. Managing a network of spies wasn’t the same as training farmers to hold a sword. He had Rylen and Byrony, and a few other half decent captains, but he needed them in the field, holding the positions that the Inquisitor tended to collect like prizes. 

The very idea of having someone there, in Skyhold with him, was warming. That it was _Carver_ was exhilarating.

Never good at asking for things, better for his wants to go unvoiced than be disappointed, Cullen took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “Yes. Please.”


End file.
